


Part I: Master

by lockedin221b



Series: The Way Blood Flows [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Homosexuality, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual Touching, Nudity, PTSD John, Partial Nudity, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>c. 1800</p><p>John Watson is taken captive after he and his fellow Hunters fall victim to an unexpected attack. John is taken from the rest of his captured comrades and thrust into the life of a pet to a vampire estranged from his affluent vampiric roots: Sherlock. His only purpose is to provide sustenance for this eccentric vampire. He's not ready to give up on his life, though, so he bides his time until opportunity arises. In the interim, however, he finds himself being drawn further into the invisible lives of the inhuman creatures he is now surrounded by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *****EDIT***** I completely forgot to mention that [this gorgeous (nsfw) art](http://teabeforewar.tumblr.com/post/17660886262/and-now-that-valentines-day-is-over-heres-some) is the original inspiration for TWBF.
> 
> This is the first of three parts.
> 
> This story is more or less a crossover with one of my own worlds. So there's some mythos and lore tossed in from those stories. I try to give enough explanation without going into total full-blown exposition. But there are some things that won't make sense right off the bat, so I ask you to bear with me on that.
> 
> And, seeing as this is a fanfic, the usual caution that it is unrevised.
> 
> **PSA: There will be depictions of gore/violence/mutilation and mentions of rape. There will also be depiction of non-consensual touching. There will be no full on n/c sexual acts beyond this. The n/c touching will be just that and fairly short-lived.**

John didn’t know why he had been taken from the group. None of his comrades risked a word. Some didn’t even risk eye contact with him. Stamford had, though. Stamford watched two of the demon guards detach John from the chain line and lead him toward the manor in front of which the patrol wagon had stopped. As soon as John was out and the wagon re-secured, the driver snapped his whip and the pair of cobs carried it away.

John did not see the inside of that particular manor, not for some time. The guards led him around to a low stone building at the back of the manor. It was almost a sort of guardhouse. They deposited him inside and locked the door.

He didn’t try escaping. It would have been hopeless and likely only worsen his fate, whatever it was at this point.

The room was lit by slit windows by the low ceiling. He could have reached them with a jump, not that it would get him anywhere. There was a long oak table at the far side of the single-room building with five chairs facing the room.

The lock in the door clicked, and John swerved on bare feet. Reflex. By that point, adrenaline and fear had run their course. Between the worsening infection in his shoulder and a day and a night without food or water, he was vaguely amazed he was on his feet, let alone retained any reflexes.

The only thing John could make out initially were two silhouettes. “What’s he doing dressed?” a woman snapped.

“He only just arrived, Donovan,” a man retorted, though he didn’t sound too sure of himself.

“Aren’t you tired of making excuses all the time, Anderson? Just fix the situation.”

The man strode into the room, shoulders slightly slumped in dejection. Pallid complexion, full-blown pupils that had nothing to do with the low light.

 _Vampires,_ John thought with an outward grimace. _Fantastic._

He didn’t fight the demon, much as part of him wanted to. It would have been a losing battle had he been at full strength. Anderson produced a small knife and sliced through his already ripped shirt.

“He’s rotten,” the vampire snarled.

“Not our problem.” The woman, Donovan, stood just inside the door now, leaning against its frame.

“It’s always our problem,” Anderson muttered.

“Shut up and do your job.”

Anderson peeled the cloth away from the infected flesh.

John winced. It had been throbbing for hours, but now a fresh sting shot through his shoulder.

“Be still,” Anderson snapped. He hooked his knife into the waistband at John’s back and cut through drawers and breeches both in one motion. He gave one swift tug so the clothing fell to John’s ankles. “Step out.”

John obeyed as a shiver coursed through his body.

A single knock at the door was answered by Donovan. She opened it hastily and let in another woman.

This one was more finely dressed. She held in one hand several parchments, on which her attention was fixed. In her other hand she carried a bundle, which she tossed at John’s feet without so much as a glance. “Put those on.”

John held up his shackled hands with a rattle.

The woman looked up, muttered something, and returned her attention to her papers.

At the unintelligible words, John’s shackles loosed and fell with a soft thud onto the clean—or at least cleaner—clothes at his feet. He bent down and tossed them aside, then picked up his less marred clothing and began to dress.

“All due respect,” Donovan said, taking a couple steps from the door. “You’re new to sitting in on these sessions. He always likes to examine them bare.”

“He’s not for me, Sally.”

Donovan and Anderson both jumped visibly. John was no less startled, but far better at hiding it. He had not seen or heard the newcomer, though he stood in plain sight now just inside the doorway. He was dressed in lords’ attire. It made John nauseous, seeing these things parade around like people. The clothes had probably once belonged to an actual lord.

“What is that smell?” he sighed with annoyance. “Getting at the rats again, you two?” He strode past Donovan and Anderson without actually expecting an answer. He got one anyway, as soon as he came level to John. His black eyes flashed and he gripped John’s shoulder suddenly, digging his palm into the wound.

John cried out. His legs finally gave out and he crumpled to the ground, or did once the vampire finally let go.

“Are you two both as useless as you look? Fetch the physician at once. Both of you! As it seems you’re barely capable together, I fear what ineptitude might arise were I to send one of you on such a simple errand. Go,” he snapped, and the two scurried from the room.

As John knelt on the cold stone catching his breath, trying not to reach for his burning shoulder, a stool was set beside him. He hadn’t heard anyone move except for Anderson and Donovan leaving.

“They’re actually decent at their jobs. This happens to be an unusual case, so you will have to excuse them.”

Despite the searing pain, despite his hunger and thirst and exhaustion, John found himself laughing.

“Something amuses you?” The vampire’s voice was no longer beside him.

John lifted himself up with the aid of the stool.

The vampire dressed in lord’s clothing was sitting in the centre chair behind the long table. The woman with the papers was seated to his left, still intent on whatever papers she had brought in with her.

“You lot really do like putting on a show.”

The vampire raised his brow in interest and amusement. “‘You lot’?”

John dropped onto the stool and held his lame arm close to his side. “Demons.”

The woman actually looked up, though her countenance was lacking in any expressiveness.

“We don’t very much like that word,” the vampire said with a faint frown.

“And I don’t very much like you,” John replied.

“Tell me, John Watson—yes, I know your name. I know quite a bit about you. We’ve been watching your little Circle of Hunters for some time.”

“That would explain the ambush,” John muttered.

“Quite. I’ve been informed that you had quite a passive role in your Circle.”

John glowered at him. “If you consider patching up my mates after you lot tore into them time and time again passive, yeah, you could say that.”

“But you never actually killed one of ‘our lot’, did you?”

“Want to help me change that?” He smiled. He felt sick and dizzy.

The vampire leaned back in his chair, folding his hands and resting them on his abdomen. “What do you think, Anthea?”

The woman’s attention had already returned to her papers. “I think he’s fine, sir,” she replied dryly.

“Don’t be like that. Really, do you think he’ll do for a last chance?”

Anthea placed her palms calmly on the table. She looked straight at the vampire beside her. “What do I think? I think this is your seventeenth ‘last chance’ in fifty years, Mycroft.”

The vampire’s expression hardened.

“Personally, I don’t see what’s so interesting about this one.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t.”

The door behind John opened once more.

Mycroft sat up and smiled at whoever walked in. “Ah, Molly. Your patient.” He gestured to John.

“It’s a good thing he’s not my corpse. Turn around, please.”

John rotated on the stool, not keen on having his back to this Mycroft fellow, but certainly not about to argue with these demons. The woman before him wasn’t quite petite, but she was mousy. 

“Shirt off please,” she said as she dug into a leather satchel hanging off her shoulder.

John struggled to remove the shirt one-handed, but eventually managed.

Molly sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth. “What did your people do to him, sir?”

“He arrived like this,” Mycroft replied with an air of nonchalance, quite different than how he had reacted upon first noticing John’s injury.

“It’s going to take more than my bag to fix this. And certainly not in this filthy place.”

“Use whatever facilities you need,” Mycroft replied.

Molly closed up her satchel and crossed her arms. “And where is your prisoner to be deposited once I’m done with him?”

“He’s not a prisoner, not anymore.” Mycroft crept into John’s peripheral, and then his full vision as he and Anthea headed for the exit. “He’s to be Sherlock’s new pet.”

“I see,” Molly muttered, looking dismayed. “Well, I discourage any transport at least until tomorrow evening.”

“Fine, fine. Do as you will,” Mycroft said. “Do you need an escort?”

Molly put on a smile and looked over her shoulder at Mycroft. “In his condition? I think I can more than manage.”

“Suit yourself.”

The door snapped shut, and Molly turned back to John. “Well, aren’t you a mess.”

John nodded dumbly, or tried to until vertigo hit him hard.

“Oh dear.” Molly chewed the nail of her thumb. “You’re going to faint as soon as you stand up, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” John said.

“Maybe I should have taken Mycroft up on that escort.” She smiled more genially and felt the back of John’s brow. “Burning up. No doubt starved and dehydrated by the look of it.”

“What did he mean?” John’s blurring vision drifted to the closed door.

“About what?”

“Who’s Sherlock?”

Molly frowned. “Don’t worry about that now. Let’s see if we can keep you from Death’s door, shall we?” She turned and set herself next to John’s good arm. Slinging it over her shoulder, she said, “Slowly now. Let’s see if we can’t at least get you inside the house.”

It was a hopeless endeavour. As soon as John was on his feet, the room spun and he fell to the ground in an unconscious heap.

 

John woke when he tried to roll over in his sleep. The added pressure to his injured shoulder sent a shock through his body. He was in a bed—an honest to goodness bed. Still wearing the breeches he’d been given, but the shirt was gone. His shoulder was tightly wrapped, and with clean bandages. The room was small, but he was the only occupant. He stepped onto the cold floor and walked to the barred window. All he could see was the side of the vast manor, and that he was on the second floor.

He took a closer look around the room. There was a bowl on a small table in the corner. In the bowl, fresh fruit. He let his bodily needs get the best of him and selected a pear. At least he assumed it was a pear; he’d never seen one as big as this. It was almost the size of his fist, and not half rotten. It didn’t taste half rotten either. It was sweet, and juices ran down his cheek. It didn’t last long, and next he went for an apple. He was halfway through a second pear when the door opened.

“Oh, sorry! Should have knocked.” It was Molly. “May I come in.”

John dropped the half eaten pear on the table. “No one’s stopping you.” He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge.

Molly closed the door behind her. She was smiling, and it wasn’t the predatory smile John was used to seeing in her kind. “Feeling better then?”

“My shoulder feels like it’s been hit with a mallet, my stomach is empty, and I’ve just been enslaved by demons. I’m doing swell, you?”

Molly’s smile faltered. “I wish you didn’t see us like that.”

“As demons or slavers?” He flashed her a humourless grin.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she set her leather satchel on the bed beside him and began undressing his wound. “I could speak with Lord Mycroft on your behalf.”

“About what?”

“Keeping you here. You’d be alright here. If you don’t act out, you’ll be treated well.”

“And where is it I’m supposed to go? There was a name, I don’t remember it.”

“Sherlock. Lord Sherlock.”

“Nasty guy?”

“No.” Molly set aside the dirty bandages and searched around her satchel thoughtfully. “He’s not cruel, not really.”

“Then what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s…” She distracted herself by carefully applying ointment to John’s wound. It stung initially, but soon a cooling sensation spread through his shoulder, followed by a mild numbness. “Inattentive.”

John scowled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he doesn’t take care of his things.”

John and Molly both looked up at the door. Anthea stood there, no longer dressed in a lady’s gown. She wore riding breeches and a blouse. Her hair was done up in a tight braid .

“You ought to knock,” Molly chided, turning back to dress John’s wound.

“Why? He’s hardly going to get privacy where he’s going.” Anthea was watching him with a careful eye. He didn’t like it. “Though I suppose that will be the least of your worries.”

“Anthea,” Molly muttered.

“Should I coddle the poor thing?” Anthea sneered. “You get too attached, Molly. You know, if you wanted, Mycroft could find you a pet of your own. Maybe he’ll even let you have this one.”

Molly’s face turned red, but she turned on Anthea angrily. “You know very well how I feel about these things.”

Anthea smiled. It was not a kind smile. “Yes, you’d like to be his pet, wouldn’t you?”

Molly, apparently, had no response, as she returned her attention to John’s shoulder. She finished the wrapping swiftly, snapped her satchel shut, and stormed out of the room.

“She’s too kind for her own good.”

“Says you,” John mumbled.

Anthea slipped into the room and closed the door. “I’m going to give you a piece of advice. John, was it?”

He glared up at her. “Why should I accept anything from you, let alone advice?”

“Because you might actually live more than a fortnight if you listen.”

John relaxed his features and gave a one-shoulder shrug.

“Sherlock is an idiot. He has a tendency to not eat.”

John quirked a brow. “And?”

Anthea settled her hands on her hips. “Have you ever come across a starving vampire?”

Her tone sent a chill down John’s spine.

“We call it the Hunger, but it’s not just any hunger. It turns us mad. A vampire suffering from the Hunger becomes frenzied. They feed on the nearest living thing. It could be a horse or their own household. But a vampire under the influence of the Hunger doesn’t just feed until it’s no longer starved; it feeds until it’s full. Do you know how much blood it takes to fill a vampire that starts out starved?”

John gave a slow shake.

Anthea held up three fingers. “Three adults, if number four is lucky.”

“Charming.”

“A vampire who goes through the Hunger is lucky if his peers let him live after what will no doubt be multiple murders committed.”

“And this Sherlock?”

Anthea dropped both hands to her sides and rolled her shoulders. “I’ve been in Mycroft’s household for half a century now. To my knowledge, Sherlock has been through the Hunger no less than twice a year. Now, I have better insight than most, but no one has the insight Mycroft has. I guarantee it’s more frequent than biannually.” She turned toward the door.

“You said a fortnight.”

Anthea looked back at him.

“You said I’d be lucky if I lasted a fortnight.”

“Sherlock also gets bored very easily, and he doesn’t like his maker. He isn’t usually keen on the things Mycroft sends him either.”

“Mycroft made him?”

“Over a century ago.” Anthea shut the door before John could ask any more questions. Not that he had anymore. He was having enough trouble processing the information she had already given him.


	2. Chapter 2

John would have rather walked than be stuck in the carriage with Mycroft for three hours. He spent the entire ride staring out the window as it were, not that there was anything to see on a moonless, overcast night.

When there was a tap from the driver, Mycroft retrieved something from beneath his cloak. “Here.” He passed over a small box.

John opened it and then stared at Mycroft. “I’m not wearing this.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Suit yourself. However, I should inform you that, in this world, an unclaimed human does not stay unclaimed for long. So, you can wear that, or take your chances during Sherlock’s frequent and extensive… travels.”

John didn’t like the way he said the last word. He liked the contents of the box far less. But he hadn’t given up on perhaps finding a way out of his predicament, no matter how unlikely that prospect continued to grow. He pulled the chain from the box. Attached were two copper disks. On one was what John knew now to be Mycroft’s crest, or rather the crest of his bloodline: Holm. The second had a similarly styled, though toned down, M.

“What’s his is yours?” John pulled the chain over his head.

“At this point, he won’t be keeping the wolves at bay.”

“Has he ever? For any of his… ‘pets’.”

“Not in a very long time I’m afraid.” This time, it was Mycroft who stared at the window.

It wasn’t long after the exchange that the carriage turned off what could be called the main road, little travelled as it was by the lack of wear. Mycroft rapped his knuckles on the wall of the carriage and it slowed to a halt. Without a word or a look, he stepped out and shut John in. In a second, they were moving again. When they stopped for good, it was Anthea who opened the carriage door.

“Where did he go?” John looked around, seeing absolutely no sign of Mycroft.

“He prefers to walk this part of the journey.”

“Why?”

“Inquisitive, aren’t you? Careful you don’t ask the wrong questions.”

John looked sideways at her. “What are the wrong questions?”

She smirked. “If only we knew. Come on, little pet. Time to meet your master.” She put a hand on his bad shoulder and steered him easily around the carriage.

The house was a far cry from Mycroft’s manor, but still impressive. Three stories, and a sizeable stable at the side from what John could see. John recalled Anthea’s earlier comment about horses and shuddered involuntarily.

She guided him up the steps, hand stalwartly on his shoulder with just enough pressure to add a twinge of pain without risking any real damage. John kept quiet.

The door opened before they reached it. The man standing in the entryway had grey hair, but didn’t look particularly aged. He wore decent clothes, nothing gaudy. John’s eyes, however, travelled to the sword attached to his hip.

Anthea, steering John ahead of her, paused for a moment beside the man and patted his cheek. “Butlery suits you so well, Gregory.”

John didn’t catch the man’s reaction, because Anthea immediately continued pushing him along with that one carefully placed hand. They entered a drawing room, and Anthea pushed John to the ground beside a sofa. She took a seat and rang a small bell on side table.

“She’s in town.” Gregory, who John highly doubted was actually a butler, stood in the doorway.

“Then you fetch the tea.” Anthea smiled icily.

Gregory crossed his arms and returned the expression. “Not on your life.”

Anthea sneered. “Well if you’re not going to be any fun, at least tell him we’re here.”

“Where’s Mycroft?”

“Where do you think he is? Honestly, Gregory. Don’t be so dense.”

Gregory scowled, but he left.

“He’s not a vampire,” John commented.

“Him? Not in the slightest.” Anthea seemed all too pleased with herself about this, and didn’t elaborate.

A few minutes of tense silence later, a door somewhere in the house slammed.

“Wonderful,” Anthea muttered. “He’s in a mood.” She rose to her feet and crossed to the entryway just as someone appeared there.

John couldn’t make out much with Anthea blocking his view. All he could tell was the individual was tall with a shock of dark curls. “He’s not even here yet, is he?” a low, cold voice snarled.

“Well, you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“And I don’t like to be kept.” He shoved past Anthea and strode into the room.

He wasn’t just tall; he was long. Maybe it was where John was sitting, but he doubted it. The man before him was all limbs, and dressed in nothing finer than expensive breeches and a shirt, the sleeves of which were pulled up to his elbows. He wasn’t even wearing stockings, let alone boots. He looked John over in one quick sweep, but, even in that small window of time, John felt he had unwillingly divulged every secret about himself.

“This is it? This is what Mycroft thinks is going to ‘cure’ me?”

Behind Sherlock, Anthea’s mouth worked nervously and silently. John got a strange sense of pleasure in seeing her summarily dethroned from flaunting her position. He realised that should probably worry him.

Sherlock followed his gaze, looking over his shoulder at Anthea. When he looked back at John, he wore a thin smile.

John definitely began to feel concern for his own well being.

The front door opened and closed, and everyone’s attention left the room until Mycroft walked into it. “Have a seat,” he said, walking past Anthea and Sherlock both and lowering himself in a large armchair. Anthea returned quietly to her earlier seat on the sofa.

Sherlock stood where he was. “Well? You’ve deposited him. Now you can leave.”

“Not quite. Sit, Sherlock.” There was a cold command in Mycroft’s voice. Despite Sherlock’s defiant attitude, he sat on the sofa, as far from Anthea as he could manage. “There are a few stipulations.”

“In that case, you can take him back.”

“Firstly, he was recently injured and is still healing. Molly will be visiting every three days to check on his progress.”

“Oh, because this idiot isn’t enough, you’re giving me two guards now?” He gestured to the doorway, where Gregory had reappeared.

“She will be looking after John, not you. Secondly, and I mean this sincerely, this is your final chance.”

“Of course it is.”

“I mean it, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s eyes flashed. “My hand will be forced-”

“By whom?” Sherlock barked, grinning wildly. “Eliza? Off gallivanting in the colonies with her slut of a pet?”

The silence that followed Sherlock’s room was tangible, though John couldn’t begin to understand the reasons behind it.

“No one says it, but everyone knows it. Eliza is all but a whore for her hum-”

Quicker than John could follow, Mycroft was out of his chair and backhanding Sherlock across the face. Then he grabbed Sherlock’s chin and forced his gaze up. He spoke in a quiet, powerful voice, “You may not care for bonds of fealty, but you will not disrespect her in my presence. Is that understood?”

Sherlock licked a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth and smiled. “Whatever you wish, sire.”

Mycroft returned to his chair with a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Suffice it to say, if you cannot control yourself from now own, my ability to protect you will not merely be limited, but gone altogether.”

“I never asked for your protection.”

“Yet here I am, providing it time and time again.”

“Were there any other stipulations, or may I show you the door now?”

Mycroft shook his head. “At least try to consider your life as something worthwhile.”

“Good evening, Mycroft.”

With a final glance at John, Mycroft rose, Anthea following, and they made their way out without another word.

John had a lot of unwelcome expectations about what would happen next. None of them came to fruition. Sherlock didn’t even look at him again. As soon as Mycroft and Anthea were gone, he leapt to his feet and disappeared somewhere into the house. A door slammed somewhere.

The only person left in the room with him was Gregory. “Follow me,” he said.

John’s legs were stiff as he unfolded himself from the ground. Gregory led him up to the second floor. There the house split two ways.

Gregory pointed to the right. “Housekeeper and maids.” Left, “Sherlock and you.” He opened the first door they came to.

It was a sizeable room, at least compared to anything John had seen in a long time. He certainly had never had something like this to himself before. There was a medium sized bed, chest, and a small desk and chair. A large window looked out onto the woods surrounding the house with a cushioned bench beneath the sill. Opposite from the window was a second door.

“Sherlock’s room,” Gregory said when he caught John looking at it. “And no, you can’t open it from this side.”

“So I’m to be locked in at night?”

Gregory smiled. “Not unless you give us a reason to. You don’t run, you don’t fight, you can go wherever you like in the house. Except Sherlock’s room, unless he invites you himself, or the third floor.”

“Should I bother asking?”

“Sherlock’s study, workroom—we call it his cave. He probably knows, but, if you call it that, at least make a show of doing it behind his back.” Gregory offered his hand. “By the way, we never were introduced.”

John looked at it warily.

“Greg Lestrade.”

John looked away from the hand. “John Watson.”

“Lighten up. You’re already acting like you’re-”

“Dead?” John gave him a sharp look. “The last people I could call my friends are probably dead by now, or worse. I’m certainly in that worse category, as I’ll have to sit through a few weeks of servitude before apparently being sucked dry because daddy’s favourite doesn’t know how to feed himself. So, if it’s alright with you, I’ll act however I damn well please.”

Greg watched him calmly through his tirade. He was not at all perturbed, at least no outwardly. “I’ll give you some time, then. Come find me when you want to see the rest of the house.” He closed John into his new room.

Despite himself, John tried the door after a minute had passed. Greg was at the top of the staircase, leaning against the banister. “You don’t lock me in, but you’re guarding me.”

“Not you,” Greg said with a shake. Then he gestured up.

“Sherlock?” John stared at the ceiling. “How does he even get up there? I don’t see any stairs.”

“Private access, from his room.”

John glanced down the corridor to the only other door on his side. He ducked back into his room and slammed the door. He paced up and down for a few minutes before finally throwing a punch—straight into the window.

 

“It’s a good thing I came home when I did,” the old woman bandaging John’s hand said for the third time. “There. That will have to do.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Greg said.

“It’s quite alright. It’s hard settling into a new life, I understand. You must be starving, though. I know Lord Mycroft, and he doesn’t keep much food around for the likes of us.” She patted John’s uninjured hand and went to busying herself.

They were in the kitchen. Greg had rushed into the room when he heard the noise. He dragged a swearing and bleeding John down to the kitchen where two maids were working. They hadn’t fluttered about long before the housekeeper arrived. She handed several parcels to the frantic maids and set about patching John up, ignoring his sour attitude and chatting politely until he had calmed down.

“Afraid supper isn’t ready yet.”

“Supper? It’s got to be almost dawn.”

Greg and Mrs. Hudson exchanged knowing smiles. While the latter carried on finding something for John to eat, the former straddled the bench next to John. “We do things differently this side of the line. Supper’s around dawn, breakfast a little after dusk.”

“Pantry is always open if you’re hungry,” Mrs. Hudson called from the place itself.

“You’re all rather…”

Greg frowned. “What?”

“Trusting.”

Greg laughed, and even Mrs. Hudson was smiling as she set a plate of cheese, bread, and fruit before John. Greg nudged the plate toward John. “We don’t trust you, John. But you’re either stupid, or you’re not. If you’re stupid enough to run, well.” He looped a finger under the chain around John’s neck. “These will put you right back at Mycroft’s. I’m sure he’s told you what would happen if you didn’t wear this.”

John pulled the chain away from Greg’s hand and dropped it below his shirt. “He’s implied.”

“Then you’re stupid, and you run, or you’re not stupid, and you’re not going anywhere. The closest town is a few miles from here. The closest gateway is somewhere between it and London. If you want to show bravado and go out looking for it, we’re not going to put up a fence or lock you in a room. But as soon as you’re caught—and you will be caught—you’ll be wearing that, and wind up back here anyway; or you won’t be wearing that, and wind up dead. Eventually.”

John did not like how Greg said “eventually.” He contemplated the food before him before finally tearing off a chunk of bread and popping it in his mouth.

“There’s a lad,” Greg said, giving John a pat on the shoulder—thankfully his good shoulder—and standing. “I’m going to go look in on our lord and master and make sure he hasn’t made a run for it while you were having your little show.”

“I’m sure he’s just fine,” Mrs. Hudson called as Greg left the kitchen.

“What did he mean?” John said around a mouthful of cheese. “About Sherlock making a run for it?”

“Never you mind, dear. Eat up. Muriel, get the boy some water.”

By the time John had been shown the rest of the house, dinner was ready. He ate with Mrs. Hudson, the two maids, and Greg at the table in the kitchen. He couldn’t have felt more out of place; he certainly didn’t miss the fact that the meat he was eating was far more cooked than the others’, and still undercooked for his liking. But they chattered away like any friends over a meal, or at least Mrs. Hudson and Greg did. The maids seemed far too nervous about John.

After John had finished, Greg gave him a light pat on the back. “Come on, before you pass out in your plate.”

He was exhausted. He had never felt so tired in his life. It seeped into his very core. But he managed to make it upstairs on his own two feet.

Greg drew the heavy curtains to block out the coming daylight. “There are some things in the chest. Mrs. Hudson will make sure you’re fitted properly tomorrow. Chamber pot under the bed. Maids will deal with it in the evening.”

“And?”

“And what?”

John nodded to the door leading to Sherlock’s room. He’d neither seen nor heard the vampire since Mycroft left.

Greg sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “I don’t know. In the past, it takes him a few days to even remember he’s got a food supply. Or care. But if he actually takes to heart what Mycroft said, he could show up today. Even Mycroft has trouble predicting Sherlock at times; the rest of us haven’t a hope of that sort of insight.”

“Right.”

“Do yourself a favour and try not to think too much about it.”

“Sure, I’ll get right on that. Greg?”

“Hm?”

“He’s the only vampire here, isn’t he?”

Greg nodded. “The rest of us are shifters.”

 _That explains the raw dinner._ “He doesn’t like other vampires?”

“He doesn’t like others, period. Mycroft tried the jealousy angle once. He replaced one of the maids with a young vampire. Thought competition would drive Sherlock to do the smart thing.”

“And?”

“Well, it worked. A bit. She was the first to go during that particular Hunger. Of course, the pet was next.”

“Don’t think about it, huh?”

Greg shrugged and closed the door.

John didn’t think he’d sleep with such fear nestling inside of him, but exhaustion won over long before the sun was above the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: Shapeshifters have the ability to change into an animal at will. Which animal is genetically determined. Most shapeshifters take the form of carnivorous animals, though, and so their diets even in their "human" looking forms consist largely of raw meat.


	3. Chapter 3

For three nights, John went without seeing Sherlock. Hearing was a different matter. Late one afternoon, John woke to relieve himself and heard music through the ceiling. He asked about it over breakfast that evening.

"He's quite the musician," Mrs. Hudson replied fondly.

"Says it helps him think," Greg told him.

"Think about what?"

"The last thing I want to know is what goes through that man's head."

Near midnight on his third evening in Sherlock's house, Molly arrived as promised.

"It's healing nicely," she said after careful examination, and she began wrapping it with fresh bandages.

"You sound surprised."

She met his gaze. "Well, I wouldn't have expected a human to heal so quickly while being fed on."

"He hasn't," John told her. It had been a relief, but also a growing concern in John's mind.

Molly's soft expression went rigid. "Not once?"

John shook his head. "I haven't even seen him since I arrived."

In a flurry, Molly fled the room. She didn't go far, and he could hear her nearly yelling at Greg. "You get him down here his instant."

"Sure, as soon the sun sets in the east."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

"Give me the key."

"Are you insane?"

By now, John had gone to his door and was watching the exchange. Molly had her hand out. Her hand was still, but her shoulders were shaking.

"Maybe none of you are taking Eliza seriously, but I-"

"It doesn't matter if we take her seriously. What matters is if he does." Greg thrust a finger up at the ceiling.

"The key, Greg."

With a heavy sigh, Greg pulled a key out from beneath his shirt. It was attached to a leather cord, which he pulled over his head an handed to Molly. "I'll starting writing about your demise to Mycroft then, shall I?"

Molly ignored him and stormed down the hall. Whatever the key was for, it wasn't Sherlock's bedroom door. A moment later, there was a crash, followed by a lot of shouting. Mostly from Sherlock.

"Will she be alright?" John glanced between the ceiling and Greg.

"If anyone would be, it'd be her."

In a few minutes, Molly returned with a none too pleased Sherlock on her heel. She turned on him and thrust out an arm toward John. "Eat."

There it was, sinking fast and icy in John's gut.

"Are you going to nanny me now?" Sherlock sneered at Molly, though his gaze flickered over to John for just a moment.

"If I have to, yes."

"Tch." Sherlock moved past Molly and toward John.

He sank back into the room until the back of his knees hit the bed.

"Breeches off," Sherlock ordered.

"W- what?" John yelped at the same time someone closed the door.

Sherlock pressed his thumb and forefinger to his brow in a gesture of great annoyance. "I will tear them bodily from you if you make it necessary."

"Why do I have to undress?" John stammered out. He swallowed hard. "All you need is my neck."

"On the contrary, I dislike the taste from the carotid and subclavian arteries." Sherlock moved until his body was nearly flush with John’s. "The taste at the femoral artery is far more to my liking." He lowered his head until his mouth hovered beside John's ear. "So remove your breeches, lay down, and spread your legs; or else I will dispense of all niceties now and henceforth."

Niceties? But John didn't say anything else. He moved his hands to his waistband.

Sherlock snatched up his hands, then held them flat in his own.

“What?”

“Fascinating.” He dropped them and pushed John onto the bed. “You move far too slowly.”

John bit back a retort and shucked off his breeches. His instinct was to hesitate at his drawers, but the look Sherlock was giving him made him hurry with those as well.

“Lay back.”

He obeyed; he didn’t really have a choice. At least not one he would opt for. So he laid back on the bed, knees bent at the end, feet flat against the floor. When he felt Sherlock’s hands on his knees, spreading his legs apart, John shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see this. Feeling it would be bad enough.

Sherlock’s touch was cold. The wood creaked slightly as he moved, probably squatting or kneeling between John’s calves.

It didn’t hurt like John thought it would. He expected something sharp and instantly agonising. After the initial twin pricks, however, the pain was a dull throb that grew steadily. But it did grow, and at some point he was gripping the sheets under him and biting his lip to keep from making a noise. Then he didn’t have the strength even for that, and his hands went lax as his head began to spin.

There was a thumping somewhere nearby, but John’s head had grown hazy. Shouting, and then the pressure on his leg disappeared. It still hurt, like a deep bruise. He felt hands there, gentle, warm hands he couldn’t bother to object to. Then he was being moved, slid up on his bed, shifted around, and then covered. He thought he heard his name, but he couldn’t be sure.

 

When John woke next, it was with a headache and foggy memory. The fog eventually faded; the headache did not. He pulled back his blankets to find he was still bare from the waist down. His right thigh was bandaged.

Luckily, his clothes had been placed in reach. He leaned down to grab him, but, when he sat back up, the room began to sway so severely that he had to close his eyes and lay back down. He moved slowly after that, creeping along until he had covered himself up. It was such a strained process, he was exhausted again by the time he was done. He wanted to fall right back to sleep.

But his stomach was hollow and his throat sore, so he forced himself to stand and took each step with care until he was at the kitchen.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re awake.” Molly was seated at the table with Greg. “Sit down before you pass out again. I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Thanks,” he muttered before sliding onto the bench beside Greg.

“Alright?”

John shot him a glare. “What do you think?”

“Molly’s already given him an earful.”

“For what?”

Molly returned with a hot cup of tea, strips of dried beef, and bread. “He was either far closer than any of us thought, or he was doing it intentionally.”

John ignored the food for the moment, despite his stomach’s protests. “Closer to what? What did he do?”

“The Hunger.” Molly blinked in surprise. “He should not have taken so much. Didn’t you think to say something?”

John gaped. Despite the buzzing headache, he snapped his mouth shut and gritted his teeth for a moment. “Say something? Me? About—that?” He was tired, dizzy, and flustered, and the combination hardly made for any coherency.

“Yes. You should let him know if it starts hitting your head.”

“Of course. Why didn’t I think to interrupt the thing drinking my blood?” He’d have stood up and walked out if he didn’t think it would make him pass out.

“Didn’t he explain anything?” Molly was looking at Greg now.

“Does he ever?”

John cleared his throat.

Molly looked back at him, then at his plate. “Please eat, John.”

He tore off a piece of meat and popped it in his mouth. “Explain.”

“When a vampire takes a human pet,” Greg began, and already John felt nauseous. “There’s usually a certain amount of training that happens, a sort of breaking in. During that period, the new pet is never the vampire’s primary food source. It’s a time for him or her to learn the human’s limits, among other things. And, in an ideal situation, when training is over and the human might be the only or at least the main food source for the vampire, that human has some amount of say during the feeding process. It depends on how trustworthy he or she can be. With enough rapport, even a semi-decent vampire will listen if the human says they’re taking too much blood, or if the human claims to be ill. Those types of scenarios.”

John had forced himself to get through a few bites of meat and bread, and half his tea while Greg was explaining. All the while, his stomach churned harder and harder. _Ideal situation? Decent vampire? Rapport?_

“Obviously,” Molly took up, “Sherlock isn’t one to follow convention. So there was no preparation on your part.”

“I don’t see myself ever having rapport with that-” he gestured rudely up at the ceiling.

The distant sound of the parlour clock signalled half four. Molly sighed. “I need to be leaving. Rest easy, John.” She looked sharply at Greg. “Nothing else for at least twenty-four hours.”

Greg snorted. “You’ve got far too much faith in me.”

“I mean it, Greg.”

“And if I can talk him down, I will. But don’t think I’m going to put my neck on the line. He’s waiting for an excuse to get rid of me as it is.”

Molly gave an exasperated huff and marched out of the kitchen.

Greg shook his head. “Bloody madwoman she is. Well, speaking of that-” he mimicked John’s earlier gesture upward. “Best make sure our gracious lord hasn’t fled the coop.”

“Does he often?”

“Considering it’s the sole reason I’m even here, yes. Yes he does.” Greg grinned humourlessly and left John alone in the kitchen.

He stared at the rest of his food. Bite by bite, he forced himself through it. No one else disturbed him, and soon morning light filtered into the kitchen. When he finished, he left his plates at the table and trudged back up to bed. For a while, he sat on the edge of his bed facing the door to Sherlock’s room. He thought about moving the desk to block it, but that was laughable. The thing on the other side was hardly going to be waylaid by a few pieces of lumber.

So John stripped down to his drawers and curled up in his bed, wincing at the ache in his thigh. Twenty-four hours, Molly had said. John had at least twenty-four hours away from the creature above him, playing as it did on the violin. Unnatural.


	4. Chapter 4

The feedings quickly became a regular occurrence, though they only happened when Molly came for John’s check-up. John suspected Sherlock had heard a thing or two from her after the first incident, as Sherlock never drank nearly so much as that first night. The episodes still left John lightheaded and hungry, but he never lost consciousness again. And they were silent affairs, quick and to the point. They never spoke, and John rarely saw Sherlock outside of those evenings.

He began spending time in the library, away from the rest of the household. He’d never been around so many books, and he longed to be more literate. Occasionally he would select a title and attempt it, but the ones that seemed most interesting—those with diagrams of anatomy, herbs, and the like—always had the least comprehensible words, and before long John’s frustration would win out and he would return the volume to its shelf.

Most of what he had learned as a medic for the Hunters had been from his mother, when he was still a child and still had parents. People would come to his mother with illness and injury alike, and John would watch with rapture as she healed and soothed each and every one of them. If it had not been for her, John would never have been useful to the Hunters. He would never have found his second family. And lost his second family.

When the library wasn’t enough of a distraction, John would wander into the kitchen. Except for dinner preparations, Mrs. Hudson would be the only other occupant, and she didn’t look at John like a thing to be wary of, like the two maids. Eventually, she even began enlisting his help. It started with a simple fetch something from the pantry; it didn’t take long to evolve into stir this or chop that. He didn’t mind too much. It gave him something to do. It made him feel less like an object, even if it was still servitude.

Weeks passed this way, and suddenly they had their first snow. It was wet and didn’t stick, but it was a harsh reminder for John. He had been captured in the middle of summer. He had lost everyone and everything he had known months ago. He hadn’t even mourned them properly.

“See to that, John,” Mrs. Hudson said, interrupting John’s internal lamentation. He hated sinking into those thoughts.

“What?”

“The door, dear. Someone’s at the door. See to it.” She always worded it as an order, but it never sounded like one. He was convinced, if he refused, she wouldn’t admonish him. So he never refused.

“Right, sorry.” He left the long since abandoned turnips he was supposed to be chopping and wiped his hands on his breeches.

He had never answered the door before. No one ever visited except Molly, and he had an uneasy feeling those would be ending soon. His shoulder had healed weeks ago.

But Molly had been there only yesterday. So, with growing curiosity, John opened the door. It was most definitely not Molly.

The woman standing on the stoop had dark auburn hair, porcelain skin, and bright green irises, though they only appeared as thin rings around largely dilated pupils.

She looked at John with mild surprise and sniffed. “You’re the latest one, eh?” She said nothing else and brushed by him.

“Uh.” He really didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Seeing as the woman kept walking, she probably wouldn’t have listened anyway. He closed the door and followed her back to the kitchen.

“Mary, darling!” Mrs. Hudson wiped her hands on her apron and embraced the woman warmly. “Back already?”

“Those dogs are worthless in the winter. Have any nibbles? I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Naughty girl.” Mrs. Hudson waggled her finger at the young woman. “Nothing fresh I’m afraid. Eustace is at market now.”

“I’ll take anything.” She removed her heavy cloak, looked about, and thrust it into John’s arms without a word. Then she wandered off to the pantry.

“Go hang it up, dear.” Mrs. Hudson hardly looked at him before going back to the dough she was kneading.

John went back to the foyer and hung the cloak with Sherlock’s things, which seemed a permanent fixture there.

“Who was that?” Greg called from upstairs.

“Someone named Mary?” he offered.

Greg clomped down the stairs wearing a bright smile. “And she hasn’t even said hullo.”

“She said she was hungry.”

“That girl’s always hungry.” He swept past John with brisk, cheery steps.

Curiosity had always been a weakness for John, so of course he went back to find out who this Mary was.

“Oy!” Greg called as he stepped into the kitchen. “Where’s the vixen?”

“That’s no thing to call your niece,” Mrs. Hudson chided.

Mary re-emerged with a mouthful of dried pork and cried gleefully around it, “Uncle!”

“You lose all manners when you’re away,” Mrs. Hudson sighed while Greg and Mary embraced.

“Uncle?” John piped up at last.

Mary looked at him with an expression that was somehow both disdainful and interested.

“Mary here is Mycroft’s daughter,” Greg explained, putting an arm around her shoulders and hugging her to his side.

“I thought vampires couldn’t have children.”

Mary kindly shrugged off Greg’s arm and seated herself at the table. “The ignorance of humans is boundless.”

“Be nice. John’s alright.”

“Of course he is,” Mary muttered and pulled off another piece of dried pork with her teeth. It looked frighteningly feral.

Greg shook his head affectionately. “Vampires can sire children. Hypothetically, they can also birth them.”

“Hypothetically?” John wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but the question was already out of his mouth.

It was Mary who answered, and she did so dryly, “The amount of sustained blood intake it takes for a vampire to conceive and carry even a half-vampire infant to term would decimate an entire town, people and livestock alike. Even with a witch for a mother, she nearly died carrying me. Shame she didn’t,” Mary sighed wistfully.

“Goodness, child!” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “She’s your mother. You should be more respectful.”

“She’s a horrid woman and you know it.” Mary smiled as she swallowed the rest of her meat whole.

“Who’s your mother?” John glanced at Greg, supposing he had a sister.

“Anthea Morstan.”

“Anthea Holm,” Greg corrected.

Mary scoffed. “The day any legitimate Holm recognises her as an equal is the day the Hunters make a dent in their little war. Besides,” she added under her breath, “they don’t call me a Holm.”

John wanted to say his friends had made plenty of dents before being massacred, but he held his tongue. Instead he said, “But isn’t Anthea a vampire?”

“Not by any fault of Father’s,” Mary grumbled. “She was still a witch when she had me. Then she tricked my father into turning her. It wasn’t the plan.” She looked at Greg, and it was with sorrow.

“It’s alright,” Greg said. He sat on the bench across from her and reached out to cover her hand with his.

Mary pulled back. “It’s not, and you’re too good a man to say it aloud.”

John tentatively sat beside Greg, expecting some nasty look from Mary. She seemed to ignore him, though. “Then ‘uncle’ is just a term of endearment?”

“Yes and no,” Greg said.

“I called him Papa once, and Anthea nearly beat me to death.”

John rubbed his head, still completely lost. “Papa?”

“Anthea was supposed to be a surrogate,” Greg began slowly.

“She was supposed to be gone once I turned fourteen. But by then, well, she fairly raped my father for his vampirism.”

“Mary,” Greg said soothingly. “She makes it sounds harsher than it is.”

Mary slammed her fist on the table, and John was convinced he heard the thick wood splintering. “I do not,” Mary growled, rings of green iris glistening. “You were supposed to be at his side, not nursing this fool.” She waved upward, which John had learned was the general way for anyone to reference Sherlock, regardless of whether or not he was in his “cave.”

Once more, Greg covered Mary’s hand with his. “It’s alright.” This time he didn’t let go until Mary had relaxed at least a little.

“You… and Mycroft?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Humans are so quaint. Yes, little one, Greg is my father’s lover. And should have been his partner and mate years ago.”

“Oh,” John said quietly, looking down at the table. He began tracing the grains of wood with his eyes.

“I’m the only one your father can trust here,” Greg said to Mary. “You know that.”

Mary sighed. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Then she set her gaze on John. “So, who’s this then? The latest poor sod Father’s dumped here? How long have you been around then?”

John looked up, glad for the change of subject but not too happy about it being him. “Since summer.”

“Impressive.”

“Mary,” Greg said with a cautious tone. “He’s your brother’s chance.”

“Again?” Mary replied, completely indifferent.

“No, Mary. His real last chance. Eliza will force your Father’s hand if Sherlock goes into another Hunger.”

Mary’s brow knitted as she considered Greg. “You… You’re serious.”

Greg nodded. “No one likes the situation, but if John doesn’t last, Mycroft will have to take Sherlock’s life.”

John had known this was the case since the day he arrived, but hearing it so plainly put made his insides twist.

Mary stood up and walked out without another word.

“Good luck,” Greg whispered.

“She’s going to talk to him? Does she have any leeway with him?”

Greg shrugged. “Depends on their moods. Sometimes yes, sometimes the maids are cleaning the mess for days.”

“Should I hide somewhere?”

Greg chuckled. “No, he won’t take it out on you, just the furniture. Especially since he just ate yesterday. Hopefully that has him at least a little pacified.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“No promises that you’ll get an answer.”

“You and Mycroft? Any Mary?”

Greg nodded. “Eliza was pressuring him to find a new heir, since Sherlock was clearly not working out. Vampires of their position don’t change just anyone. Eliza wouldn’t allow him to pick me for reasons even I’m not privy to. But he didn’t trust any of his followers to be good enough and loyal enough, so he decided to have a child and mould an heir for himself. We agreed on Anthea together, when she offered herself. She came from a loyal family, was sturdy, and had a fair amount of power as a witch. She fooled us all, though.”

“How do you steal vampirism?”

“Do you know how turning works?”

John, embarrassed by his ignorance, shook his head.

“It’s a blood exchange. They drink, you drink. It has to happen within a few hours, though. One night, a few years after Mary was born, Anthea mixed her own blood and a sleeping draught into Mycroft’s drink. She did it well; there was no change in the colour or taste. A couple hours later, she managed her way into his room and stole a vial of his blood.” Greg was grimacing by the time he finished.

“I may not be privy to how this world works, but that seems like a pretty serious offence.”

“It is. The only reason he couldn’t kill her for it was because she had birthed his child.”

John paused before pressing, “Couldn’t, or wouldn’t.”

Greg looked at him with a wry, almost-smile. “A bit of both I think.”

They were interrupted by a loud crash from two stories up.

“Ah, there it is. Sorry. Need to make sure he doesn’t-”

“Yeah, I know.”

Greg patted him on the back and hurried off to keep an eye on the perimeter. A lot more crashing followed. Mrs. Hudson gave a sigh, but made no other comment as she continued with her work.

 

John retreated to his usual hiding spot: the library. He was curled up on one of the sofas by the hearth, a tome open in his lap. Even though the library was a two-story room, he hadn’t heard much noise from the top floor. The odd distant thump. It was relatively easy to pretend he wasn’t where he was. At least it had been up until that night.

“You.”

John’s skin prickled and he snapped his head up. Sherlock stood a few steps from the far end of the sofa, glowering at him. He closed the book and hurried to his feet. “I’ll leave.”

For a moment, it seemed like that was what would happen. John would leave and find somewhere else to hide out until supper. But then Sherlock’s expression twisted into a snarl. “Stay, but don’t make any noise.” He crossed to a large armchair and threw himself into it, legs draped over one of the arms.

John stood there unmoving. He wasn’t sure if he had been ordered to remain or given permission. He was afraid to ask for clarification, so he assumed it was a command. He lowered himself back onto the sofa and slowly searched for the illustration he had been looking at.

“Do you even read Latin?” Sherlock muttered.

John glanced up, but the vampire had his eyes shut. His fingers were peculiarly positioned, palm to palm with the tips of his fore and middle fingers up under his chin. “No.”

“Then why bother?”

“Why not?”

Sherlock’s eyes shot open and honed in on John in an instant. His gaze flickered across John as if he were a text being read. “Explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Your answer. It’s not an answer. Why would you bother reading a text you haven’t the slightest chance of understanding? Why waste time on something so obviously futile?”

“I have a lot of time to waste.”

A pause, and then the same command, “Explain.”

John gestured to the house around them. “I haven’t anything to do except read books I can’t understand.”

Sherlock sat up properly in his chair and leaned forward. “This is all you do? Sit here and stare at what is to you nothing more than gibberish?”

“Mostly.” John shrugged. “I help Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen sometimes-”

Sherlock laughed, or at least John assumed it was supposed to be a laugh. It was a single hollow sound, and it left Sherlock grinning, his dark, pupil-engulfed eyes flashing with firelight. “You help the staff?”

“As I said,” John muttered, doing a poor job of hiding his alarm at the face before him. “Not much to do.”

He expected Sherlock to mock him again, but the smile dissolved and the vampire took on a curious expression. “I suppose there wouldn’t be. I never considered that.” And he didn’t seem to care, as he immediately repositioned himself to sprawl across the chair and closed his eyes once more.

John shut the book and set it down. “May I leave?” he said as calmly as he could.

“You fear me,” Sherlock mused, lips curling but eyes still shut.

“I’d be an idiot not to.”

“Probably. But that isn’t my point.” He opened one eye and directed it at John. “Hold out your hands. Flat, palms down.”

John obeyed. The position felt ridiculous. The scrutiny of the single eye was unsettling to say the least.

“Mhm.” Sherlock closed his eye and leaned his head back.

“What?” John held his hands up in front of himself. He couldn’t see anything peculiar about them.

“Go,” Sherlock snapped.

John didn’t wait for an answer. He left the book where it was and hastened for the exit.

 

John hadn’t known Mary was staying the day until she appeared for breakfast the next evening. She had not been at supper. John wondered where she had slept, since there were no spare rooms in the house.

“Sherlock’s bed.”

He looked up abruptly from his food. He was sure he hadn’t asked aloud.

“He doesn’t use it. He thinks sleeping is a waste of time, but, on the rare occasions he does sleep, it’s often in his cave or somewhere in the library.”

“I didn’t ask,” John said.

“Not aloud.” She grinned and stuck the piece of meat speared onto the end of her knife into her mouth. She had bread in front of her as well, but it seemed she ate mostly meat, like the rest of the household. Only John’s portions were ever regularly tempered with fruit and veg.

“Don’t be rude,” Greg said. He turned to John. “All vampires have some level of empathic ability. Some, particularly powerful ones, have true telepathy. One certain half-vampire happened to get that from her father.” He raised an accusing brow at Mary. “She says she can’t control it-”

“Because I can’t. It really is rather weak. I usually only pick up on thoughts about myself.”

“Mycroft’s telepathic?” And then he remembered the encounter in the library and added, before getting an answer to the first question, “Is Sherlock?”

Mary burst out laughing. Even the maids were giggling quietly at their end of the table. “That lout? He’s hardly got a scrap of empathic power.”

Greg nodded. “He’s peculiar in that aspect. Mycroft thinks he might not have any.”

“Are you sure?” John pushed, though tentatively.

“Oh goodness,” Mary said, still grinning but somewhat settled. “He’s done it to you, hasn’t he?”

“Done what?”

“His annoying—what does he call it?” She turned to Greg.

“Deduction.”

“Right, deduction.” She returned to John. “He has this annoying ability to read people without actually having any empathic or telepathic powers. It drives everyone round the bend.”

“How does he do it then?”

Mary sighed. “My brother may be mad, foolish, and ignorant, but he’s also quite brilliant. It’s his only saving grace. You would think after everything he’s done for her, Eliza wouldn’t so readily put him down like a dog,” she spat.

“She isn’t make this decision on a whim,” Greg said, as ever trying to cool Mary’s fiery attitude.

“So is this Eliza Mycroft’s maker?” John said slowly.

“Among other things,” Greg said. “She is also the Valden.”

“The what?”

“Think sovereign,” Mary explained, her tone implying John was a child to her. “Except the title is gained by proving yourself rather than inheritance, and it gives you symbolic power over every single vampire, witch, and shapeshifter. Eliza has been Valden since 1453.”

“Three-hundred fifty years?” John gaped openly. How couldn’t he.

“One of the longest runs for a Valden,” Greg added. “And not without its consequences.”

“Enough politics,” Mary declared. “You.” She pointed at John suddenly. “Come with me.”

“Why?” The question was out of John’s mouth before he had a chance to think. 

Mary stared at him for a moment before smiling. It wasn’t a very pleasant smile, but it wasn’t wholly predatory either. “Curious and cheeky.”

Greg chuckled. “I think he gets bored.”

“Because, little one, you and I need to have a chat before I leave. Now come along.”

This time, John followed without question. She led him up to his own room and told him to wait. She was only gone for a few minutes.

“He’s in the library—probably hiding from me—so we can talk here. Sit down, little one.” She pulled up the chair at the desk for herself and directed John to the bed.

John sat, but not without at least a little self-defence. “Could you not call me that?”

“Aren’t you precious. I’ll call you whatever I like, little one, and you’ll be glad I don’t call you much worse. Especially with that impolite thinking.” She just laughed when John drew back. “Now, I want you to listen very carefully because no one else is going to say this to you as plainly as I will: we don’t care about you. We don’t want to know who you were before you came here, and we especially don’t care about who you think you are. You are no one. It doesn’t matter how nicely Mrs. Hudson treats you—she would treat a mongrel the same. It doesn’t matter that Greg chats with you; he gets lonely looking after my brat of a half-brother night in and night out. You are nothing but a source of food for Sherlock. Your only job is to keep yourself healthy. Otherwise, you stay out of the way. Don’t annoy him, don’t question him. Don’t even speak to him unless he asks you a direct question. You are his last chance, and you may hate us—I know you do, just by that look on your face—but you are necessary.”

Anger was rising in John the more this woman spoke, until his cheeks were hot and he blurted out, “If I’m so bloody important, maybe you should treat me a little more decently.”

The chair scraped on the floor when Mary stood up. She grabbed John’s chin and held it so tight it hurt. “You are nothing more than a permanent food source for Sherlock. The moment you accept that is the moment you-”

A door slammed open.

But it wasn’t the door to the hall.

Mary dropped her hand and both of them turned to see Sherlock standing in the threshold between his room and John’s.

“Sherlock,” Mary greeted curtly, but even John could tell she had made a monumental mistake.

“You,” he growled, black eyes glaring dangerously. “Your petty jealousy will not be tolerated. Get. Out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said lightly, a smiled stretched forcibly across her mouth. “I’m not-”

“OUT!”

Even John shrank back, though he was not the recipient of Sherlock’s wrath. Mary gathered what dignity she could and tried not to run from the room.

Sherlock slammed the door and whirled on John. “As for you.”

“I didn’t say or do anything, I swear.” John held his hands up pleadingly.

Sherlock reached forward and wrapped a long-fingered hand around John’s neck. He didn’t squeeze, but it still felt like the air in John’s lungs was rapidly running out. Sherlock leaned in close to his face and said quietly, “When a pet feels threatened, he calls for his Master.” He let go and snatched the chain around John’s neck, pulling the copper tags out from under his shirt. “You have this for a reason, fool.” He dropped them against John’s chest and disappeared into his own room, securing the shared door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

The night after Mary left was one of John’s check-ups. It was the night Molly informed John it would be her last.

“Why?”

“I’m afraid my skills are needed elsewhere. And, let’s be honest, John, I haven’t been coming for your shoulder for some time.” She gave him an apologetic look. “Don’t be afraid to remind him every few days.” She patted his hand, but he pulled it away. “I’m sorry, John.”

Molly left him with a box of the salve she used on the bites and clean bandages, encouraging him to ask Mrs. Hudson for more when he ran out. She said he would be fine, but she didn’t look at him as if she believed her own words. John didn’t sleep well that night.

When three more nights had passed, John almost considered waiting another. But he remembered the first time Sherlock fed, and he didn’t want to risk a repeat. He found Greg in his usual spot by the stairs, a book in his hand as there sometimes was.

John cleared his throat to get his attention. “It’s… time. Been three nights.”

Greg nodded and dug his key out. “Here.” He tossed it to John.

“I thought I wasn’t-”

“For this, you are. But definitely try knocking first.” He smirked and returned to his book.

John ventured down the hall for the first time. He passed the door belonging to the two maids on the right, and then came to the farthest door, nearly hidden in the corner to the left. The key in his hand was definitely too small for the lock in the door, so he tried the handle. It opened easily.

He took a moment to look around at Sherlock’s room. There was a large four-poster bed, the blankets of which looked hardly touched. The pillows were nowhere to be seen. A large desk in the corner was cluttered high with books, parchment, and half-empty inkwells. A wardrobe hung open, but the clothes inside were meticulously ordered. That was quite a surprise, since John had hardly seen Sherlock in more than breeches and shirt. But his wardrobe held all sorts of kind clothes. There was also a bookshelf, crammed fuller than any in the library.

And tucked away on the other side of the bookshelf was a narrow door. John did try knocking, but, as expected, there was no answer. He tried the knob; locked. The key slipped in and turned perfectly. The door didn’t creak at all. It opened out and revealed a narrow stairwell spiralling up, lit only by the light in the bedroom. John took care in climbing each step, one hand against the wall and the other before him until it came in contact with another door. He knocked at this one, but, of course, no answer.

Before trying the key, he called tentatively, “It’s John.”

In a second, the door was flung open. “What are you doing here?” He looked at the key in John’s hand. “And why do you have Lestrade’s key?”

“He gave it to me, to- It’s been three days.” John swallowed hard and did his best to straighten his back.

Sherlock’s dark eyes narrowed. “Is that insufferable Molly here?”

“No. But-”

“Come back tomorrow. I’m occupied with more important matters..” And he slammed the door. The lock clicked into place.

John took a deep breath and tried knocking again. There was a muffled shout for him to go away. Instead, he put the key into the lock. It worked here as well. Breath rattling in his chest, he slid the door open.

The room was massive, as it took up the entire third floor. There were multiple tables and desks, many covered in parchment, books, and ink, like the one in Sherlock’s bedroom. Other surfaces were littered with bizarre machines, though some looked like pistols and rifles. There were also a few swords and knifes mixed in. And, taking up a very large corner of the room, an expansive setup of beakers and flasks. There was another flat surface covered in a white cloth near these. The room was lit by candles mostly, but large windows along two opposite sides would certainly let in a fair amount of light during a full moon.

And then John’s vision was obscured; Sherlock stood directly in front of him. “I said to come back tomorrow,” he hissed, walking into John so that he was forced to back up.

Luckily, John had just enough wherewithal left in him to remember the stairs, and caught himself before tumbling down. With one foot on the top step and the other still inside the room, and hands against the doorframe, John stared right back at Sherlock. “You nearly killed me the first night you fed on me. How long had it been since you fed before that?”

“That is no concern of yours,” Sherlock snapped.

“Actually, yeah, my life, I think it is a concern of mine. How many nights?”

“Six.”

That explained why Molly insisted on every three days. It had nothing to do with John’s shoulder. “Right,” John said with a nod. “Then three nights is a good average.”

Sherlock splayed his hands on the doorframe above John’s and leaned in. “Suddenly so eager.”

John refused to lower his gaze, though the flight instinct in him was doing its best to claw its way out. “I don’t like being here. I don’t like being your food. But I also really don’t want to die.”

“Not. My. Problem.”

“Isn’t it?”

That took Sherlock by surprise.

John felt a little bolstered. “Everyone from your maker to your housekeeper is pretty convinced it’s your problem.”

“How dare you-”

“If you go on another Hunger frenzy, your life is forfeit. That’s what everyone’s been telling me. Apparently it’s on me to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He tried stepping up back into the room, and, amazingly, Sherlock stepped back and allowed it. “You think this is what I want? There are moments when I do want to give up and let myself starve, or let you starve and kill me after all. But, call me a coward, I usually don’t want that. Most of the time I’m a fool who’s desperate to survive. God knows why; this place is hell enough. I don’t want my life’s purpose to be keeping you alive, of all things. But this is what I’m stuck with right now.” He pulled out his tags and waved them between himself and Sherlock. The copper clinked softly but poignantly. “Right now, you and I are stuck with each other. And I don’t think either of us fancies dying just yet. So how about we just agree you feed every three nights, and we can just ignore each other the seventy-odd hours between.”

John wasn’t sure how he had managed to say all of that with Sherlock staring him down, but, now that he had finished, he thought he might piss himself.

“Well then?” Sherlock said.

“Well what?”

“You’ve made your point. I want you out. You still aren’t permitted in here.”

“Oh.” For a brief moment, he had thought Sherlock was turning him out, to fend for himself or go back to Mycroft. He simply wanted him out of his cave.

John made his way down as slowly as he had made it up. When he walked past the bookshelf, he saw Greg standing just inside the door leading to the hall.

“Eavesdropping?” Sherlock said.

“Making sure I still have a reason to stick around.”

“Unfortunately.” Sherlock rested a hand on John’s shoulder, making him jump. “Give the man back his key, John.”

John nodded and handed it to Greg, who hid it back in his clothes.

Sherlock didn’t release him, though. He steered him toward the door between their rooms. From this side, it wasn’t nearly as foreboding as the handle-less piece of wood in his room. There was simply a latch that Sherlock lifted before pushing the door out. “Go away, Lestrade,” Sherlock called, sounding bored and annoyed. He let go of John only after his own bedroom was vacated and the door shut.

Over the last several months, the whole process had become rote. Sherlock would pace and perhaps suck at his teeth impatiently while John stripped from the waist down. This time, however, John felt Sherlock’s gaze and its apparently newly discovered interest. His face grew hot.

“Embarrassed?” Sherlock mused. “We’ve been through this forty-one times.”

“You counted?”

“Only as you might breathe. Now lay down.”

John obeyed, and they went through it a forty-second time. Usually, when Sherlock was done, he would simply walk out. This time, however, he lingered a moment.

“You taste sweeter when you’re embarrassed.” He gave John a predatory smile before going back to his room, and most likely up to his cave.

John retrieved the salve and bandages from his chest and applied them as carefully as he had seen Molly do. As he was pulling on his drawers, someone knocked at his door, delaying his plans to promptly pass out. “Come in.” He never turned anyone away; he imagined they wouldn’t take kindly to that.

“Congratulations,” Greg said as he opened the door and leaned on the frame.

“For what?”

“That stunt. I’m amazed he didn’t kill you on the spot for speaking to him like that.”

John glared at him. “So you were eavesdropping.”

Greg shrugged. “Never denied it. You know, I think that’s the first time a human’s talked back to him like that in over fifty years—and lived that is.”

John’s attention was caught. “Fifty years? Anthea mentioned fifty years once. What happened back then?”

“That,” Greg said with a frown, “is not a story for me to tell. Sleep well. Pray to your god he doesn’t reconsider his decision to let you live.” He winked and shut the door.

John burrowed under the thick quilts he had been given when the weather turned. He closed his eyes, but his mind continued to wander with thoughts of who this human might have been.

 

John was not killed in his sleep, and he had woken with conflicted feelings about this fact. He decided to latch onto what little hope there was left to him. His life didn’t really change after that night, except for the fact that Sherlock now watched him undress before every feeding. John didn’t dare complain, despite the fact that his skin crawled each and every time. He thought he would get used to it, but, after a few weeks of still feeling invaded, he began to reassess that assumption.

Everything was otherwise quiet. John continued to spend his nights between the kitchen and library. When the snow was at its thickest, Mary visited again. She studied John when he opened the front door. He felt there was something different about her, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.

“Did it work then?” She walked in and hung up her cloak for herself.

“Did what work?”

She turned and smiled on him. It wasn’t as dangerous a smile as the last he had seen; it was more amused. “Did he become uncontrollably jealous and actually start paying attention to you?”

John gawked. “That’s what that was all about?” 

“Of course. I wasn’t actually going to harm my brother’s pet. Even an idiot wouldn’t go that far.” She rested her hands on her hips. “So, did it work?”

 _No thanks to you scaring the piss out of me._ But John shrugged. “Yes and no.”

Mary frowned. “What does that mean?”

“He feeds regularly, but otherwise we just ignore each other.”

“Well,” she sighed. “Better than nothing I suppose.” She said nothing else to John and walked off to the kitchen, this time calling out to let Greg know she was there.

When Greg came down the stairs, he looked John over and asked, “Alright?”

“She’s… strange.”

Greg just laughed and went back to join the others in the kitchen.

John avoided the group and went to the library. He had a book in his hands and was headed toward the fireplace before he saw Sherlock already sprawled out on the sofa, looking very much asleep. John turned on his heel, ready to walk back out.

“Hiding from that dreadful woman as well?”

John stopped dead. “A bit.”

“Don’t make any noise and I will permit you to remain.”

Silent co-occupation was definitely the less appalling of his two decisions, so John settled into one of the smaller armchairs with the book. The silence didn’t last long.

“Still obsessing over a language you can’t even read?”

“Is there a way I can answer that that doesn’t make seem like an idiot?”

Sherlock chuckled. It was an unexpected sound.

John didn’t have much time to dwell on it. The library door opened and shut, prompting Sherlock to roll off the sofa and onto his feet as Mary emerged from the bookshelves.

“We have an agreement,” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes, an agreement that is voided under-” she saw John, who was doing his best to appear unobtrusive by intently staring at the words he couldn’t read. “Circumstances,” Mary finished.

“Out.”

John looked up to see the order was directed toward him. He shut the book and shuffled out, depositing the book in its shelf on his way. He found Greg pacing in the corridor.

“Something wrong?” John looked over his shoulder at the library door.

“Nothing that you need to be concerned about. Mrs. Hudson needs help in the kitchen.”

“Of course.” John doubted it; no one had actually sent him to Mrs. Hudson’s aid. He had only ever helped when he was around and Mrs. Hudson herself gave him orders. But he went anyway.

Neither Greg nor Mary joined them for lunch, which, as a result, was a quiet affair. Mrs. Hudson clearly knew something. She barely spoke. The other two maids also seemed quieter than usual.

It was all interrupted by a door slamming and Mary shouting at Sherlock as they stomped up the stairs. Despite his better judgement, John left the table and crept into the hall. It was empty, even of Greg, so he kept going until he managed to slip into his room and press his ear against the door to Sherlock’s.

“-can’t go through with this. It’s dangerous enough having the mongrel south of the river. You bring it this far-”

“And we will still be plenty distanced from the city. This is a priceless opportunity, Mary. Why can’t you, of all people, see that?”

“I see it, I just don’t like it.”

“Come, Lestrade. We have game to pursue!” Sherlock sounded fairly gleeful, and it made John shudder. Two pairs of feet raced through the hall and down the stairs, and a moment later the front door opened and slammed shut.

“You’re not very quiet.” Mary’s voice was right up against the door, which John still had his ear to. He jumped back and Mary laughed and unlatched the door. “Humans, really.”

There was a sound of hooves, and John went to his window. Below, a pair of horses were racing away from the stables with Sherlock and Greg mounted atop. “Where are they going?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, little one.”

John turned around. “I’ve been here since August. The only times Sherlock has ever left was with Greg running after him, not with him.”

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.” Mary looked at him thoughtfully, at least for a moment. “Still, it’s none of your business where they’re off to. Come along. I don’t suppose you finished your lunch, did you?” She waved him along to follow her back down to the kitchen. Throughout the rest of the meal, she kept up an obviously false sense of joviality that even Mrs. Hudson wasn’t joining in with.


	6. Chapter 6

Three nights passed. When Sherlock and Greg had left, it had been two since Sherlock last ate. Five nights. Would he satisfy himself on the nearest bystander? At least John knew that, no matter how humiliating his situation was, he would live to see another night. He doubted an innocent man or woman or—god forbid—child would fare so lucky.

“You’re not worried about him, are you?”

John was curled up on the bench beside his window. He turned from staring at the snow-covered grounds to see Mary in his doorway, the one leading to the hall. “Worried about what will happen to me if he comes back hungry.”

“I see.” She didn’t leave, which John felt was more than a little rude. Instead, she kept chatting. “What do you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your free time. You must have quite a bit of it. Sherlock doesn’t exactly engage like most would with their pet. And you said you two liked to ignore each other.”

John leaned his head against the cold windowpane. “Why do you care?”

Mary crossed the room and sat on the other end of the cushioned bench. “I’m curious. Sherlock’s never had a pet last this long, not since I can remember.”

John found that curious. Whoever Sherlock’s pet had been fifty years prior, it seemed even Mary didn’t know about them. “How old are you then?”

“That’s quite forward of you.” But she smiled. “Thirty-four.”

“You look closer to twenty.”

“Half-vampire. I still age, but, after adolescence, the process slowed dramatically. What about you? I don’t really know what human aging is like.”

John smirked. “What would be your guess?”

“Hard to say. If you were a witch, I would put you around forty. A shapeshifter, maybe closer to fifty.”

He chuckled.

“What’s so amusing?”

“Christians say your souls belong to the devil; that’s why you lot stay young for so long.”

“I’ve heard about that I think. He’s supposed to be some dark ruler of the afterlife or something?”

“Or something.”

“Not very faithful, are you?”

John shrugged. “My family was killed when I was a boy. I couldn’t see reason in a holy design after that.”

“You know, we believe in someone like your devil.”

“Oh?”

“We call him the Dark Raven, though I’m told some witches in Scandinavia still refer to him as Odin’s Messenger.”

“Aren’t ravens typically dark?”

Mary smiled knowingly. “This Raven has a different kind of darkness about him. They say he is the oldest of the immortals, the first and only true immortal.”

“Did he create vampires?”

“Maybe. But it’s said, if he appears to you, you can be sure your death will be known to all the world and your name never forgotten.”

John cocked his head. “Is that good or bad?”

She laughed. “Most people take it as a bad omen.”

“Do you believe in your devil?”

Mary shrugged. “I’m not sure. But you never answered my question.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Humans really do age quickly.”

John le this head fall against the window again. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t the question I was referring to, though. What do you do for fun?”

John glowered at her reflection in the window. “Fun?”

“You must get bored.”

“Sorry, I haven’t really figured out to enjoy my enslavement.”

Mary completely ignored the jab. “You were in the library earlier. Do you like to read then?”

“Can’t. At least nothing more than a bit of English. And most of those books are Latin or Greek or languages I couldn’t even begin to guess at.”

“Would you like me to teach you?”

John lifted his head and looked at her warily. “Why would you?”

“You aren’t the only one that’s bored.”

“Yes, but you’re not tethered here.”

“Actually, I am. Father assumed Sherlock would go running off as soon as, well, as soon as I delivered a certain piece of information. He told me to remain here until Sherlock returned. So we’re both stuck. Now, would you like to learn to read or wouldn’t you?”

He really had nothing better to do, and it seemed like a better offer than watching the snow and wondering whether or not he had only one more day to live.

 

Two more days passed, during which Mary taught John the basics of Latin. She was an excellent teacher, and he was a fast learner. But, on the seventh day since Sherlock and Greg left, their aftermidnight lesson was interrupted.

Mary looked up abruptly, nose wrinkled in disgust and eyes narrow.

“What is it?”

“They’re back,” she said quietly. She rose from the desk in the library and walked briskly out of the room. After a moment’s of internal debate, John followed.

Sherlock and Greg were in the foyer struggling with something very large. Mary stood in John’s way.

“Stay back,” she told him, holding her hand out, palm toward him. “Sherlock, when did you last feed?” It sounded like she was repeating the question.

“It doesn’t matter. Would you help us already?”

“Sherlock!” Mary shrieked his name, which got his attention enough that he stopped for a moment with his present task. She said in a much quieter tone, “Tell me when you last fed.”

The noise was piercing, not like a normal scream. John winced away from her. Even Sherlock and Greg looked pained.

“He ate yesterday morning,” Greg said. “Now please, we really could use your help.”

Mary relaxed and stepped forward. “You took him down transformed?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock snarled. “Pick up his feet.”

John didn’t know what “he” was, but, by the size of the canvas sack the three were struggling to carry up the stairs, John wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It was at least two heads taller than Sherlock and twice as broad.

It was almost half an hour before any of them reappeared downstairs. The first was Greg, who collapsed at the kitchen table just as Mrs. Hudson put a bowl of beef stew—more raw beef than broth really—in front of him. He thanked her before digging in, more savagely than he was usually prone to. John averted his gaze.

Greg didn’t speak again until that bowl and half another one had been downed. “You’re a life saver, Mrs. Hudson.”

“If you boys didn’t- Oh, never mind.” She huffed and went back to preparing their actual supper.

“Don’t look so concerned, John. I told you, he ate yesterday morning.”

John looked at him, doing his best to ignore the drop of blood in the corner of his mouth. “What was that thing?”

It was Mrs. Hudson who answered a little shrilly, “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

John looked from her to Greg, but the latter only said, “She’s right. Don’t think too much on it.”

“John, come here please.” Mary stood uneasily in the door to the kitchen. She’d never said please to him before. In fact, the only person who had said please to him since he was taken captive had been Molly. The word sounded odd to his ears. “John.”

“Sorry.” He clambered up from the table and followed her out. She stopped between the front door and the staircase. “I need to report back to my father. But I need to tell you something.”

“About Sherlock?” John guessed.

“Yes. For the next few days, he’s going to be very… distracted. Intent on what he’s doing.”

“What is he doing?” John made another attempt at getting information, but only to be brushed off once again.

“Don’t worry about that. What you do need to understand is that, in this state he gets into, he tends to forget about things like sleeping and eating.”

“Oh.”

Mary took a deep breath. “And he can be more volatile than usual. Don’t be afraid to ask Greg to come with you when you go to remind Sherlock when he needs to eat. Uncle’s given Sherlock a whack upside the head more than once.” She gave him an uneasy smile. “Good luck, John.” She pulled on her cloak and hurried through the door.

 

John had two nights before he had to make sure Sherlock ate. He was in no rush. He did his best to keep up with reading, but Mary’s lessons hadn’t taken him very far. His mind kept drifting to the inevitable, and soon enough he was faced with it.

The only thing he asked Greg for was the key, but Greg followed him anyway. All the way up the stairs. He stood behind John, and John had the distinct feeling that Greg’s hand was resting on his sword.

Like the first time he had come up here, John knocked and waited for a response. There was none, so he opened the door. The room didn’t seem very changed, except that whatever had been in the sack was now laid out on a table beside the odd equipment in the far corner. It was massive and furred, but John couldn’t make out anything else.

“It’s time.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to hear him. Greg put a hand on John’s shoulder and moved him to the side. Sure enough, one hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “Sherlock.”

“Thinking.”

“It’s time to eat.”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock muttered.

“No, Sherlock. Now.”

Sherlock set something down and turned. He had on a apron covered in blood. “What did you say?”

“Don’t be a fool, Sherlock. This will only take a few minutes. Then you can get back to-”

Sherlock shot across the room. John had never seen someone move so quickly. He slammed Greg up against the open door with one hand clasped around Greg’s throat and the other pinning his sword hand to the hilt, and the hilt inside its sheath. “I don’t care how much Mycroft enjoys fucking you raw. You do not command me.”

John watched frozen until he saw blood on Greg’s throat. “It’s not his fault,” he said, causing Sherlock to shift his deadly gaze to him. His throat had gone dry. But he had gotten Sherlock’s attention, so he pushed on. “I asked him to come with me. In case you were, you know, tempted to kill me for interrupting your work.”

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock released his grip on Greg’s throat. Once he had let him go in full, Greg, gasping, covered his neck. Sherlock ignored him and now had his full attention on John. “So it’s you who would command me?”

“No, no. Of course not. But think about it for a moment. If you don’t keep up with eating every three days, you eventually hit the Hunger, you kill a few more of your own people, and Mycroft has to kill you. Then you’ll never finish your work. So isn’t it better to just… take a little break?” John had no idea if he was making any sense, but attempting to reason with Sherlock seemed better than the alternative of imminent death. It didn’t seem like Sherlock was budging, though. John was ready for that hand to close around his own throat until he had one last, desperate idea. He whispered, breath shaking, “Master.”

Like a spell, Sherlock’s entire posture relaxed. The next moment, his mouth was curled into a lazy smile. “Well then.”

John pointed at the apron. “Could you, ehm, please leave that? I’d rather not get my bed bloody—Master.”

“Of course, my pet,” Sherlock purred.

John shuddered as Sherlock removed the apron and deposited it at Greg’s feet

“Shall we?”

John nodded and walked in front. The gaze Sherlock settled on him as he undressed was the most intrusive yet, and it left John shaking while Sherlock fed. When he was done, he gave a pleased sigh and muttered, “Delectable.” Then he was gone.

It took John longer than usual to gather himself and fetch the salve and bandages. He pulled on his drawers and, as usual, went to bed.

But there was a soft knock at his door before he could even begin drifting off. He grunted a response more than spoke one and sat up. Greg opened the door looking no worse for the wear, which made John furious.

He was carrying a cup, though, and offered it to John. John sniffed it suspiciously.

“Just water.”

John emptied the cup and handed back. “Why are you doing this?”

Greg sat on the bench under the window. “You saved my life.”

“You look fine,” John grumbled.

Greg rubbed his neck self-consciously. You forget, we heal a lot faster than you humans.”

“I saw blood.”

“That was not actually mine. It was on Sherlock’s hands to begin with.”

John felt a horrifying sinking in his chest, wondering if his thighs had bloody handprints on them that he had not noticed in his usual post-feeding haze. Bandaging himself was yet another habit he had formed; he could do it with his eyes closed really. Maybe he had.

“Thank you, John. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I never thought he’d do it again. None of us did. But no one’s lasted this long since-”

“Do what again?” John snapped. He didn’t care; he was too tired and angry and hollow inside to care if he angered Greg.

“Truly take another pet.” And the worst part, at that moment, was how sincerely sorry Greg sounded.


End file.
